


Light Up The Ice

by AgentExile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Chronic Pain, Depression, Falling In Love, Feelings, Good Guy Yuuri, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Protect Viktor Nikiforov, Romance, Skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-31 19:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12139008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentExile/pseuds/AgentExile
Summary: Russia’s figure skating legend, Viktor Nikiforov, vanished six years ago in a cloud of rumour and suspicion, fresh off his win at the World Championships, mystery feeding his legend.As downtrodden Yuuri Katsuki stumbles into his life by the strangest coincidence, he soon realises that Viktor’s story isn’t legendary at all. It’s sad. So very sad. And startlingly human. It’s only natural that he wants to help.Perhaps they can help each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NB: I’m not usually one for writing long fics, but the idea for this came from a visualisation of a scene that I felt deserved more exploration than a one-shot, so this will be my first extended YOI fic.  
> The title ‘Light Up The Ice’ is of course in homage to Diandra’s song for the 2017 world championships.  
> Viktor's music for his skate is the Sigur Ros song ‘Saeglopur'.

   The only revellers on the streets were tourists, protected from the cold by a warm layer of liquor and a few less effective imitation furs. It was the 24th of December, still a while until the Orthodox celebrations would take shape in January, but the streets were already covered with gleaming lights and decorations, and the drunks were certainly bringing Christmas to Russia. Their roaring carols travelled through the rain in a blur, many of them vaguely familiar to Yuuri from his time in Detroit.

   He pulled his hat lower over his ears and shuffled his way into the shadows as much as he could, taking advantage of some of the overhanging shop awnings to shield himself from the steadily increasing sleet.

   Yuuri had been in Russia for two weeks now since his first Grand Prix Final, much to his parents’ chagrin. He and Phichit had decided to spend some time in St Petersburg, both bemoaning the amount of cities in which they had seen little more than the inside of a hotel room and the championship ice rink. Yuuri hadn’t expected Phichit to announce that he was sick and spend half of their trip stuck inside a hotel room after all. But under his friend’s strict instructions, Yuuri had ventured out to see the town anyway, and he had been rather enjoying exploring the city in solitude, able to go where he wanted, eat what he wanted, and buy what he wanted without constraint.

   Until now.

   Yuuri was lost, and he was fairly sure that the sleet was going to develop into a full storm at any moment.

   He hurried a little, squinting at the ice covered road signs, but they were all in Russian.

   The tourists were beginning to usher themselves into bars, able to recognise the changing weather even in their inebriated state. Yuuri checked his watch - 00:31. How had he lost track of so much time?

   His fingers were going numb even in their leather gloves, and the wetter that his clothes got, the more the chill seemed to stretch right to his bones. Suddenly scared, he fumbled for his phone in his pocket and was about to face-time Phichit when something caught his eye up ahead. It was unmistakable.

   ‘ _Ice Palace_ ,’ Yuuri murmured aloud, relief filling his voice.

   He picked up speed, moving past tourists with ease. They were skidding and slipping on the iced up sidewalks - the rain was freezing almost instantly on the ground - but even in his walking boots Yuuri was able to navigate ice as easily as gravel. His balance was innate, his centre of gravity shifting easily as he jogged towards the imposing building at the end of the next street intersection. Some revellers actually stared at him, astonished by his agility.

   As he came to the foot of the colossus, he looked up, beaming.

   The rink would be closed. Even the cleaners would be gone at this late hour. The building offered little assistance for his situation, and yet its very presence calmed him. The thought that behind those locked front doors was _home_.

   Yuuri skirted around the building, passing some of the entrance gates. Then - a miracle?

   He was hunched over now, shoulders trying to protect his chest and neck from the driving rain, but he was able to manoeuvre his way over to the open ticket gate. The door stood ever so slightly ajar. Yuuri could barely believe his luck. Had somebody forgotten to lock this door?

   It didn’t matter.

   Yuuri looked around, suddenly furtive, as though the police were about to swoop down and arrest him for breaking in to the deserted rink. If the door was open, was it _technically_ illegal? _Well, no officer in their right mind would be out in this weather anyway_ , thought Yuuri, pushing the door a little further open and slipping inside.

   He pulled the door closed behind him, finding himself in almost complete darkness.

   He drew out his phone and lit the torch, turning it around to survey the space.

   It was a concession area, with several abandoned drink stands and a shuttered kiosk selling hockey merchandise.

   Yuuri had not seen this part of the venue two weeks ago, when he had blown his free program on this very site. It was eerie in the gloom, like visiting an abandoned house. He got the impression that you were not supposed to see the grand venue like this, and started to feel strangely guilty, as though he had peeked behind the curtain of a changing room.

   Suddenly remembering the reason that he had entered the venue, the cold rushed back to Yuuri at once, and he actually flinched.

   He shrugged his soaked coat from his shoulders and laid it down on an empty ticket desk. His hat followed. The venue was still cold, but nothing like the iciness outside, and he knew that the best way to warm up would be to remove all of his wet clothes. Still, if he was going to be arrested, he decided he would rather not do it unclothed, so he kept his wet jeans and shirt on despite his shivering skin’s protests.

   Feeling even more guilty, he eyed a hockey jersey on display.

   ‘Screw it,’ he muttered, hurrying over and taking it down.

   The relative warmth made his whole body relax a little, and he exhaled loudly, glad that nobody could see him.

   He knew that he ought to find a light-switch, not wanting to waste any more of his phone battery, so he edged further into the labyrinthine networks of food stalls and foam-fingers. Everything looked as though it had been frozen in time, a sporting wasteland.

   ‘Ah-ha!’

   He had spotted a panel of switches high above one of the stalls. He was about to climb up on one of the tables when he paused, as frozen as the rest of the scene.

   _Music_.

   Yuuri felt a flutter of fear in his abdomen. He cursed himself - it was only music for god’s sake. His fight or flight response was telling him to head straight back for the door. The reasonable part of his brain was telling this instinct to shut up, but his feet itched for action.

   Yuuri didn’t mind being alone - in fact he often preferred things that way. The rink had not been scary at all, even in its darkened, deserted state. No, Yuuri’s fears were all based on the creeping realisation that he may _not_ be alone.

   He didn’t believe in ghosts. Or at least he liked to believe that he didn’t believe in ghosts.

   ‘Don’t be stupid, Yuuri,’ he whispered aloud, ‘it’s probably just a cleaner staying late. Maybe they’re doing some maintenance on the ice.’

   But would they be listening to _that_ music?

   As his fear settled a little, the initial panic replaced by more rational thought, his found himself drawn closer towards the music, and before he could stop himself, his feet were leading him in the direction of the sound.

   _Ghosts don’t play music, dumbass_ , he told himself in a voice that sounded remarkably like Phichit’s.

   He crept up a set of stone steps towards the arena, and the closer he got, the more he relaxed. He could hear another sound now - _skates_.

   Now that he thought about it, to the untrained ear the scraping and carving would probably only add to the horror, but to Yuuri, the sound was pleasantly familiar.

   Someone was skating.

   Alarm was now well and truly replaced by curiosity.

   Who would be here, late into the night, skating to ethereal music in a darkened rink?

   Yuuri stepped out onto one of the lower tier grandstands, staying in the shadows of the stairwell and craning his neck to see the ice.

   Sure enough, there was very solid, corporeal human out on the rink.

   Yuuri could not stop himself. He stepped out among the seats, drawn instantly to the skater. His mouth fell open, eyes utterly fixated on the rink.

   The man was tall, strikingly tall for a skater, and so slender that his limbs seemed to extend beyond what was natural, every line perfectly straight, every angle elegantly crafted. He skated slowly, simply, teasing a soft romance with the ice. Even in the most basic steps, he was breath-taking.

   Every nerve in Yuuri’s body was alight, buzzing with energy.

   The skater glided towards his end of the rink, an imperceptible transition leading into the most beautiful single axel that Yuuri had ever seen. He could have been embracing a lover. He landed as light as a feather, edge scything a sweet curve across the smooth surface.

   As he paid more attention, Yuuri slowly became aware that the music was strangely mournful, dreadfully melancholic, and his resolve wavered. When he looked back to the mystery skater, the program seemed to have changed. The steps remained the same, the craft identical, but the romance had turned to something else. Married to the music, the grace was no longer beautiful, but painfully tragic.

   Suddenly, a rush of guilt hit him, far heavier than that he had felt sneaking into the building. He was suddenly acutely aware that he _should not be seeing this_. This was a moment so private that Yuuri felt he had intruded on the skater’s very soul. And yet, he could not tear himself away.

   He took the last few steps down the stands until he was almost rink-side, not even contemplating the notion that the skater would spot him. He watched, eyes burning.

His movements blended the masculine and the feminine as effortlessly as his elfin features, and the long, loose, almost _white_ hair around his shoulders, his own fluid ice. His skating was stunningly androgynous.  

   Only when he lowered his body into the most graceful hydroblade that Yuuri had ever seen, did he think about his identity.

   The skater was Viktor Nikiforov.

   Now that he thought about it, he was fairly sure that he had known the second that he had spotted him on the ice, but he had filed away the thought, determined not to distract himself from the enthralment of the skate. He was so visually recognisable, and completely unmistakeable in his skating. But only now, as he pulled slowly to a halt, the music fading, did Yuuri register it properly.

   Viktor Nikiforov.

   _Viktor Nikiforov._

   The Ice King. Russia’s Golden Boy.

   Junior World Champion. Then Grand Prix Champion. Then World Champion. Slated to be the next Olympic Champion.

   _The_ Viktor Nikiforov.

   _Not seen in skates for six years._

   Yuuri stood, still rooted to the spot, even though Viktor had stopped skating.

   Viktor Nikiforov was the closest that figure skating had to _myth_.

   Yuuri had been thirteen, bounding onto the junior scene, when Viktor had disappeared. The Russian had been fresh off the world championships, aged seventeen, the darling of world figure skating. All anybody could talk about was the next Olympic season, where Nikiforov would surely complete his extraordinary triple. And then he was gone.

   Really gone.

   Completely gone.

   One day he didn’t show up to training in the morning, and that was it.

   At first, he was reported missing. Rumours and conspiracy theories spread like wildfire.

   Some journalists in the Russian media made outlandish claims of foul play from the other nations, the disappearance of their best skater just before the Olympic Games seeming a little too convenient.

   Meanwhile Viktor’s fanatic army of followers online were happy to point their fingers at anyone they could find, from the government to the mafia, and even set up search parties in the St Petersburg area.

   Then, in the least proportional response in the history of figure skating, after six months, the Olympics now in the past, a tiny statement was slipped in to the news. ‘ _Figure-Skater Viktor Nikiforov retires at the age of eighteen.’_

   That was it.

   10 words to break Russian hearts.

   10 words with no explanation for those lost sixth months. No explanation for why a national celebrity had been officially considered a missing person for half a year.

   For a while there was a flurry of attention, but Viktor remained elusive, even from his most ardent fans. He was spotted in several different cities, always in Russia, and never on ice. Nobody ever managed to get a statement from him, or even a photo with him. He faded away like smoke in the wind, and gradually the skating world mostly forgot his strange story, his fans moving onto the new Russian prodigy, Yuri Plisetsky, and the media was distracted once again by politics.

   But nobody forgot his astonishing ‘Music of the Night’ free program. Indeed, the skating world’s penchant for music from Phantom of the Opera seemed to have been retired with him. After all, what skater now would choose to skate in that extraordinary shadow?

   Even with the advent of new quads and combinations, and fresh new skaters, the free program world record remained untouched.

   Occasionally his name would be mentioned by commentators discussing scores, a reminder of his existence to make listeners remark ‘oh, Viktor Nikiforov? I remember him. I wonder what he’s doing now? Such a waste…’

   Wide eyed and hopeful, thirteen year old Yuuri Katsuki had been crushed by the skater’s disappearance.

   Now, still doe-eyed but distinctly less of an optimist, nineteen year old Yuuri Katsuki was immeasurably staggered at the skater’s reappearance.

   Viktor remained still for a moment, the sudden silence left behind by the end of the music giving Yuuri the impression that they were both frozen in time. Then, slowly, giving Yuuri enough time to flee if he’d had control of his limbs, Viktor turned to look at him.

   Time froze again.

   Viktor stared. Yuuri stared back.

   Blue eyes held brown.

   Viktor righted himself, crossing the rink in three graceful lopes, catching himself on the fibreglass boards with an uncharacteristic thud. Yuuri stepped back automatically, heart thudding against his sternum.

   Viktor said something in Russian. It sounded harsh, but that could have just been Yuuri’s unfamiliarity with the language. He gaped, wanting to respond, but seemingly unable to find words.

   Then, Viktor spoke in English. ‘Why were you watching me?’ This time, his voice was unreadable. It seemed accusatory, but non-aggressive.

   ‘I…I...’ Yuuri could do little more than stammer. ‘I just… I was just…’

   ‘Passing through?’ said Viktor, and there was a definite chill in his voice now.

   ‘There was a storm... I… How could I not watch?’

   A silence fell between them again.

   Yuuri swallowed, wondering if he was dreaming. This could surely not be happening. ‘You skate… you’re like…’ There were no words, _especially_ not in English. Perhaps in his native tongue he would have been able to find a way to render the reality of what he had just seen.

   Viktor was surveying him with piercing eyes, and there was a shadow of something like recognition there. He narrowed them further, making Yuuri feel like he was being X-rayed, but if Viktor knew him from the ice, or from the news, he did not betray it. He looked away, skating back a little.

   So many questions. A million things he need to ask of the mystery before him. And a hundred more things he wanted to ramble about the beauty of Viktor’s skating.

   He would get to say none of them, because Viktor was skating to the opposite end of the rink now, over towards the gate.

   ‘Wait!’ said Yuuri, with no idea what he was going to say, or how he was going to keep him from disappearing this time.

   ‘Leave me alone.’

   Yuuri skidded around the grandstand, much less nimble on solid ground than he was on ice. ‘ _Mr Nikiforov_ , wait!’

   The skater turned to look at him with an expression that said his worst fears had been confirmed. He paused on the ice, as if caught between choices. For a moment, his face was almost pleading, but then he constructed it back to a mask and said in a calm voice, ‘don’t tell anyone. I’m asking you, _please_ don’t tell anyone what you saw.’ He feigned steadiness, but Yuuri could hear a tremor in his voice.

   Yuuri continued to jog around the surrounds, until they were level again.

   ‘I won’t, I promise.’

   He had nothing to say. How could he beg the man to stay there? What did he even want? He knew the answer. ‘I have to see you skate again.’

   He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. How could he say something so pathetic, so self-absorbed, so _invasive_?

   There was a flash of anger across Viktor’s eyes. ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ he said coldly.

   He stepped off the ice, not even bothering with skate guards.

   Yuuri knew that he had no choice but to let him go. What else was he going to do? Make an even bigger fool of himself? Or get himself arrested for harassment?

   So he stepped back, allowing Viktor to disappear again, towards the changing rooms. Yuuri did not follow him, but he could not help the crazed thoughts running through his mind. He could return here, night after night until he saw Viktor again, even if the chances were one in a million…

Sighing heavily, adrenaline still making his hands shake, he shifted awkwardly in his stolen hockey jersey. He was fairly sure that he would be able to find his way back to the hotel from the Ice Palace, even in the storm, but he knew that he could not tell Phichit what he had seen, and he was not looking forward to keeping a secret from his best friend.

   He turned to go, suddenly eager to leave the rink behind, but a flicker of movement caught his eye.

   Viktor had re-emerged, his face set, as though he had made a decision. He crossed towards him with a new, uncontained energy. Then, with no explanation, no introduction, he said, slowly and precisely: ‘Skate for me.’

   So precisely that Yuuri was certain he could not have misheard.

   _Skate for me_.

   ‘Please.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first chapter of this on such a whim that I literally forgot that I wrote it but now I'm back to get on with it!   
> I hope you like it <3

   Yuuri stared at his skating hero, eyes wide.

   On closer inspection, the Russian looked different. He looked older, more wearied, and his features were, if possible, even sharper. Still, the bright blue eyes were the same, although maybe with a little less sparkle, and the long, near-white hair was almost identical to six years earlier, only this time it was loose around his shoulders, rather than pulled back for competition.

   One thing time couldn’t change was the slightly provocative curve of his lips, a natural projection of challenge that matched his request so perfectly.

   ‘I… what?’ Yuuri gaped, heart pounding hard against his chest.

   ‘Let me watch you skate,’ Viktor said, an unreadable weight in his voice. ‘Please… you watched _me_.’

   ‘But I…’ he couldn’t even process the request. He’d skated in competitions. He’d skated on TV. He’d skated in front of judges and friends and rivals and strangers but he couldn’t skate in front of his idol.

   _Oh God…_

‘Please.’

   ‘I don’t have any skates,’ he said blankly.

   ‘There are loads behind the boards.’

   ‘Oh… oh… okay,’ Yuuri choked.

   He stumbled around, ungraceful off the ice, looking for a decent pair of boots. Even as he went, he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing, but he just couldn’t seem to find the words to argue. Not to Viktor Nikiforov.

   ‘Do your free program.’

   He turned around, mouth falling open.

   So Viktor did know who he was. Which meant he knew what had happened two weeks ago. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.

   ‘There’s no judges here,’ said Viktor, and his voice was… soft.

   ‘I… I…okay.’

   He skated out onto the ice, trying not to think about the fact that his biggest idol’s eyes were on him.

   ‘But I haven’t… I haven’t got any music - ’

   ‘It doesn’t matter.’

    Yuuri stared, heart pounding so hard that he thought it might burst from his chest, but then he nodded.

   He moved to the centre of the rink, closing his eyes, visualising his program. Was he supposed to do his jumps, or should he mark them? Should he move his step sequence forwards to impress? Would he end up falling flat on his face and humiliating himself in front of the one person whose opinion mattered more than anyone else in the world?

   Imagining the music, hearing it deep in his mind, he opened his eyes, and started to skate.

*

   ‘Tomorrow.’

   ‘What?’ Yuuri squeaked.

   ‘Come back tomorrow.’

   Viktor Nikiforov turned, and left.

   He just left.

   He walked away, like he had from the world of skating, without a backward glance.

   Yuuri looked after him until he was gone, staring at the spot by the boards where he had stood only moments earlier. Already he was starting to wonder whether the whole thing had been a strange fever dream. Maybe he’d frozen out on the streets of St Petersburg and this was all some long coma trip. He couldn’t really have just skated for _Viktor Nikiforov_.

   Except he had.

   And by the sounds of it, he was going to have to do it again.

*

   ‘Your jump entries need work.’

   It was the first thing that Viktor said about his skating.

   He was leant on the boards, elbows propping up his chin, eyes searching over every detail of the way that Yuuri skated. It was the third night in a row that Yuuri had found some excuse to go back out into the night – some excuse to find his way back to the _Ice Palace_ for these bizarre midnight trysts.

   The first night, he’d thought that Viktor wouldn’t show up. In fact, he hadn’t appeared until past 1am, looking tired and worn and wrapped up in even more layers than were necessary for the weather. He didn’t say a single word, other than to tell Yuuri to skate again. The second night, he had asked him to bring a disc with his music. The third night, he told him that his entries needed work.

   It was like gold-dust… _advice_ from the finest figure-skater that the ice had ever dreamed up.

   ‘That’s what’s causing you all your problems. It’s fine in practice, but when you speed up because of nerves at competition you’re slipping on your inside edge. That’s why you’re struggling with the sal and the flip.’

   Yuuri nodded, dazed.

   ‘Go again.’

   And so Yuuri skated. And he skated. And he skated.

   And he never once dared to ask _Viktor_ to skate again.

   He did, on the fourth night in a row, though, pluck up the courage to ask one thing.

   ‘Viktor – Mr Nikiforov… could we… could we maybe do this during the day?’ he asked.

   Viktor surveyed him, then shook his head. ‘No. People would see me.’

   ‘But what if… what if we get caught?’ Yuuri asked nervously.

   A small smile crept onto Viktor’s face. The expression seemed out of character – Yuuri wasn’t sure he’d seen him smile even once before. Still, it gave him a slightly softer look, bringing an appealing character to his eyes that he usually kept hidden behind ice. ‘I know the owner. He lets me come here.’

   ‘Oh…’

   He supposed that it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. He wondered, for a moment, how many other people knew where Viktor was? Or what he did? Certainly no one that Yuuri had come across on the skate circuit – even the few of Viktor’s old friends who still skated talked about him almost in the _past tense_. His coach, maybe? Yakov Feltsman. Yuuri knew that the young Russian Yuri Plisetsky was under his tutelage now.

   ‘Mr Nikiforov?’

   ‘What?’

   ‘Could we…’ he took a very deep breath this second time. ‘Could we talk? Like don’t get me wrong, this… whatever _this_ is, it’s great. But… but I don’t really know what’s going on and I have to go back to Japan soon and I just… I can’t just go home with this strange memory and not a clue what it means.’

   He really needed to learn not to stammer when he was talking to Viktor, but his gaze made it very difficult to get the words out.

   There was a silence, in which Viktor did nothing but look at him, and then in a second he saw the light in his eyes go back out. ‘No,’ he said. And then he turned to leave.

   ‘Wait, _please_ , Mr Nikiforov, I - ’

   ‘My name is Viktor. Please call me that.’

   ‘Viktor… Viktor I don’t understand.’

   ‘Can’t we just do this?’ Viktor whispered, ‘until you go? Can’t I just have this?’

   It struck him that they were strange words, so strange that Yuuri didn’t quite know what they meant. The older looked at him with sad eyes, as he spoke, and Yuuri couldn’t say no. He couldn’t argue with him.

   And so he skated.

   And he skated.

   Until –

   Two nights later, when Yuuri was already starting to think about his flight home and Phichit had started asking curious questions about where he went every night, Viktor was waiting outside the rink, rather than inside it.

   ‘Viktor!’ Yuuri said in surprise, stopping in the street.

   ‘Let’s go,’ said Viktor, grabbing his arm, and steering him back in the other direction. He was wrapped up in too many layers again, hood pulled down low over his eyes and concealing his unmistakeable hair.

   Yuuri, half in shock that Viktor had _touched_ him for the first time, let himself be dragged down a small side-street, all the way to a nondescript door with a tiny sign above it that he didn’t have time to take in before Viktor pushed him inside.

   He stared around in astonishment.

   It was an all-night coffee-shop.

   And clearly one that was St Petersburg’s best kept secret, because there were only two other patrons.

   One was a writer, hunched over a typewriter in a far corner, with three empty coffee cups in front of him.

   The other was a woman wearing extremely resplendent furs and several gold chains, sipping from a small teacup as she read an old, linen bound book.

   It was like stepping into an alternate universe.

   ‘Do they know you here too?’ Yuuri asked, shaking his head in awe.

   ‘Sort of,’ said Viktor, pushing him down into a seat. ‘It’s self-serve. You leave money in the jar here,’ he said, taking out some rubles. He made him a coffee, pushing it across the table, and then sat down opposite him. Yuuri noticed that he didn’t make one for himself.

   ‘Thanks.’

   ‘So, you wanted to talk?’ he said, face emotionless.

   ‘Yeah, yes,’ Yuuri almost choked on his coffee.

   There were a million and one things that he wanted to ask Viktor Nikiforov. He wanted to ask why he’d left the circuit. He wanted to ask what had happened in those six months where everyone had thought he was missing. He wanted to ask what had happened over the last six _years_. But he didn’t think that Viktor would want to answer, and he couldn’t bear to see the expression on his face if he asked, so he took a breath and went for something simpler –

   ‘Did you know who I was?’

   ‘Of course,’ Viktor said, rolling his eyes as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

   ‘So you… you watch skating?’

   ‘Not all the time,’ he said.

   ‘You watched the Grand Prix Final, though? That’s why you wanted me to skate my free.’

   ‘Yes, yes I watched it.’

   ‘Were you there? In the arena?’

   Viktor gave a small laugh but the look in his eyes didn’t change. ‘No. Even now, I can’t just walk into a rink during the day. Certainly not a rink where I won so many of my titles. But I watched you on television. You were very good. Your short was… exquisite.’

   Yuuri actually _felt_ himself turning red.

   ‘I came last.’

   ‘Yes,’ Viktor nodded, ‘that was unfortunate. You were terrible in the free.’

   The words would have stung, but he was starting to get used to Viktor’s blunt way of speaking. He pondered around how to approach one of the bigger questions, trying to find a way to navigate these waters. Viktor was so temperamental, so quick to anger; more than once he had ended their… _sessions_ … by walking out without a word. ‘When I saw you… that night… What were you skating?’

   Viktor looked down. ‘An exhibition program that I choreographed before I retired. I had always wanted to skate it.’

   ‘Do you go to the _Ice Palace_ often?’

   He shook his head. ‘In fact, that night was the first time I had been in a very long time. Skating – it… it hurts too much.’

   A silence.

   The words settled on Yuuri’s mind with a thousand more questions riding their wings.

   ‘Why did you - ’

   ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Viktor. ‘Thank you for letting me watch you these few days.’

   ‘I have to go home the day after tomorrow.’

   ‘Can’t you change your flight?’ Viktor said softly, and there was a look of _need_ in his eyes then. It cut Yuuri’s heart like a blade.

   ‘I’d… I’d have to call about my visa. And… and I’m supposed to be getting ready for Worlds soon, and - ’ he realised as the excuses rolled out that none of them were the answer _no_. Because he couldn’t say no. Of course he couldn’t. Viktor Nikiforov, skating’s biggest mystery, was asking him to stay.

   ‘Please, Yuuri.’

   ‘I… okay.’

   After that, Viktor talked about skating. He talked about skating for so long that Yuuri got a second coffee. He talked about technique, he talked about people on the circuit now, he talked about the new scoring system that had been instituted recently. He never once talked about himself, except to mention his own shortcomings – his lack of stamina, which he lambasted compared to Yuuri’s, and a certain propensity for disobedience under the eyes of his coach.

   ‘Don’t you think that’s a good thing though? To push the boundaries? Isn’t that how we - ’ Yuuri went to gesture, the only way that he could find to express his feeling, but as his hand shot up, he knocked his coffee mug flying over the edge of the table.

   Viktor started forwards to catch it, but recoiled with a harsh gasp that married with the crash of china on the floor.

   Only the writer was left in the room now, but he didn’t even look up.

   ‘V-Viktor, are you okay?’ Yuuri stuttered.

   His eyes were squeezed shut, and Yuuri’s own travelled to his hands. They had both gone straight to his knee, though neither touched it, both hovering a centimetre from the joint as though holding it together through the air.   

   He must have twisted it when he moved too fast.

   But could it have hurt _that_ much?

   Viktor didn’t even seem able to speak.

   Yuuri watched anxiously as he took the time to relax, shaking hands moving to settle on his thighs instead, breath very unsteady.

   ‘I’m sorry,’ Viktor said after a minute, and there was even a tremor in his voice. ‘It’s an old war-wound.’

   Yuuri started to assemble a picture, but there were pieces missing. Had he retired because of an injury? If he had, surely they could have just told the press? He’d never heard anything of the sort – in fact, Viktor had always been famously fit. He’d even seemed fine a few days ago out on the rink. And of all of the athletes he knew, Yuuri could not think of anyone who had ever had a joint injury bad enough that it would still be affecting them so furiously six years on…

   It didn’t make sense.

   ‘I’m sorry,’ Viktor said again, fumbling around inside his jacket for a small bottle of pills.

   Yuuri watched him take one, eyes wide and confused.

   ‘I should… I should go.’

   ‘Okay,’ Yuuri said softly, not wanting to argue with him when he still looked to be in so much pain.

   ‘You’ll be at the rink tomorrow, won’t you?’

   ‘Yes,’ Yuuri said automatically.

   He’d negotiate a new visa. He’d find an excuse to give Phichit. He’d do whatever it took.

   There was no way he could leave St Petersburg.

*

   ‘You’re acting weird, Yuuri!’

   ‘What? No I’m not,’ he said quickly, looking down because he knew that his friend’s dark grey eyes had a special skill for seeing when he was keeping a secret.

   ‘You just got a new visa and announced that you’re staying in Russia! That’s pretty weird,’ said Phichit, launching himself forward on the bed so that he could roll onto his back and look up into Yuuri’s eyes.

   ‘Stop it!’ Yuuri groaned, pushing him away and looking at the wall instead.

   ‘What’s going on? And don’t give me any I-like-the-weather because you can get snow in Japan too. Something’s going on and I’m your best friend, you can tell me!’

   ‘I just like it here – it’s a while til worlds and I want to stick around and - ’

   ‘You’ve got a boyfriend, haven’t you?’

   ‘ _What_?’ Yuuri spluttered.

   ‘You _have_. You’ve met someone. Is he Russian? He must be. Tell me Yuuri, _please_ ,’ he whined.

   Yuuri was just about ready to rebuff him again when he closed his mouth halfway through the first word. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t such a terrible cover story… what else would give him a reason to stick around so long with no tangible evidence? He took a deep breath, and then: ‘yeah, okay, I met someone. But we’ve only seen each other a few times and I don’t want anyone to know so… so don’t tell people, _please_?’

   By _people_ , he meant the other skaters on the tour. Some of them were nosy enough to investigate.

   Phichit’s eyes lit up in excitement. ‘I won’t, I won’t! But oh-my-gosh! You’ve been seeing him every night, right? You must really like him. Is he a skater too?’

   Yuuri’s breath caught. ‘Um… no, no not really. I mean he can skate. But he doesn’t… like… he’s not a _skater_.’ _Anymore_ , he added, to himself.

   ‘Fascinating,’ Phichit beamed. ‘This is so exciting.’

   ‘Yes, it is,’ said Yuuri.

   If only Phichit knew _quite_ how exciting it was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much who read/kudosed/commented on the last chapter. I’m so happy you are interested in the fic after I left it for so long T.T
> 
> (C/W for descriptions of CRPS symptoms)

   **Viktor (23:10):** I can’t come tonight.

   Yuuri looked down at his phone, disappointment flooding his veins.

   It had been three weeks now since his strange first encounter with Viktor Nikiforov, and he was starting to seem a little less mythic and a little more human. When they’d exchanged phone numbers, Yuuri had seen that Viktor’s screen was cracked across one side, like a _normal person_. When they were walking out of the rink one night, he had tripped on the steps, like a _normal person_. When Yuuri had been skating one night, he’d noticed that Viktor took out a candy bar to eat – _eating_ like a _normal person_.

   As the illusion of the angel disassembled itself, Yuuri became more and more curious.

   He noticed, sometimes, that Viktor seemed sick. It didn’t seem to be random, anymore, the way that he wrapped himself up in so many layers. He limped – not every day, but _enough_ days – wincing at the pressure on his right knee. He got very tired – more tired, in fact, than Yuuri, even though the latter was the one out on the ice.

   Yuuri wanted to ask him what was wrong.

   But he wasn’t insensitive enough to go snooping around someone’s medical history.

   He replied to his text, and then flopped back on his bed, kicking off the shoes that he’d already slipped on and dropping his bag to the ground.

   _What am I doing?_   

   He’d asked himself the question so many times that it was starting to resonate in his brain like a broken record.

   It was insane.

   He was alone, in a different country, where he didn’t speak a word of the language, relying on the attention of a veritable stranger, who happened to be known worldwide for his ability to disappear.

   And yet he couldn’t seem to talk himself into leaving.

   It wasn’t just idolatry, though getting to see Viktor Nikiforov in the flesh every day definitely wasn’t a bad thing, but it was _useful_ too. Viktor told him things, things that even his own coach hadn’t pointed out. He was so blunt, so unafraid of offending, that Yuuri was learning about himself. It was these moments in which he was able to justify to himself the hotel bill he was building up.

*

   The next day, Viktor texted again.

   Another day with no skating.

   Yuuri sat around, then put on sneakers and went out into the hall of the hotel. There was a step halfway down the corridor that he could use for exercises. He’d been trying to keep in better shape since meeting Viktor, who had no qualms about pointing out that his physical condition wasn’t at its peak and that he wasn’t going to win any trophies unless it was.

   After a while, his phone vibrated again, and he looked down in surprise to see another message from Viktor.

   **Viktor (23:40):** Would you do something for me?

   Yuuri’s fingers almost tripped over themselves in their haste to reply.

   **Yuuri (23:41):** Of course. Anything.

   _Damn_ , that sounded sycophantic. But he couldn’t help himself.

   Viktor’s reply made him raise his eyebrows. He wanted him to go to a _pharmacy_. Apparently there was a 24 hour place just down his street.

   Shrugging because he had absolutely nothing else to do in St Petersburg, Yuuri quickly went back to his room to change his shirt, before hurrying down the stairs of the hotel and flicking open his map app to look for the address.

   It actually wasn’t too far, a short walk to a slightly quieter part of town, and down a wide but dimly lit street. On both sides of the road, there were mostly flats, but also the occasional market store, and a shuttered opticians. At last, he spotted the flickering green neon sign of the pharmacy, and he crossed the street, ducking his way into the store.

   He walked down three aisles of cheap medicines before reaching the counter.

   He stopped, praying that the woman stood behind it spoke English. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

   She turned, looking surprised that someone had come in so late. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked in the same language, accented but understandable.

   Relieved, Yuuri nodded. ‘Can I buy these?’ he asked, holding out his phone. Viktor had listed three things that he wanted him to buy, assuring him that he wouldn’t need a prescription. That had surprised him – one of them at least he had recognised the name of, and he knew they’d be hard to get hold of in Japan.

   The woman narrowed her eyes, surveying him, and he turned red, sure she was going to say no. But then – ‘Are you a friend of Viktor’s?’

   He opened his mouth in surprise. ‘I – I… yes. How did you - ’

   ‘It’s a very specific cocktail,’ she said, nodding at the list of pills. She took out what seemed to be a pre-prepared pack from under the counter. ‘Tell him to make sure he keeps it rested for two days if he’s had a flare-up. He gets back on his feet too quickly.’

   He stared in astonishment. He wasn’t entirely sure that she should be saying this kind of thing – that it must break confidentiality – but he nodded.

   ‘And tell him to keep a bigger stock of medicine. He shouldn’t be running out like this when it’s bad.’

   ‘Okay,’ he said blankly. ‘Thank you.’

   He walked back out onto the street, looking around at the apartment blocks. Finally, when he spotted the name that Viktor had given him, he stepped into the lobby, relieved to be out of the cold, and started up the stairs. His heart was thudding with nerves – he couldn’t quite believe that he was about to go to _Viktor Nikiforov’s_ apartment.

   The stairwell was dark, but not dirty or unsettling. Still, he took the stairs two at a time, stopping in front of Viktor’s number.

   A very deep breath, and then he knocked.

   He waited.

   And waited.

   Just when he was thinking that maybe Viktor had given him the wrong number, the door opened.

   ‘Yuuri,’ Viktor smiled, but the expression didn’t meet his eyes. He was leant heavily against the doorframe, and his gaze flickered immediately to the bag in his hand, barely even looking at his face.

   ‘Here,’ said Yuuri, sensing his urgency. He held out the bag.

   ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you for going to pick them up for me.’

   ‘It’s okay,’ Yuuri said.

   ‘I’m sorry, you were the only person I knew would be awake.’

   ‘It’s okay,’ he repeated. He looked at Viktor, at the long, unbrushed hair that hung loose around his shoulders, at the dark circles around his eyes. ‘Can I come in?’ he asked, swallowing his nerves. ‘I can… I can make you something to eat.’

   He wasn’t sure what made him say it – it just sort of came out. But Viktor just looked so tired, so weak, so _not_ - _himself…_

Viktor seemed like he was going to say no, mouth already forming the word, but then he stopped. He didn’t speak, but he took an unsteady step back, opening the door a little wider.

   Yuuri stepped into his apartment, and he couldn’t help but look around for a quick appraisal.

   It was fairly small, the kitchen and the living space all one room, with a narrow corridor leading off it that presumably led to the bedroom and bathroom. The first thing that Yuuri noticed was the fact that absolutely nothing in the room said _skating._ There were no trophies, no medals, no sign that the man who occupied this space had once been the top figure skater in the world.

   Instead, there were books – shelves and shelves of them – and strange little trinkets, small sculptures and ornaments, and a couple of cacti, giving life to the mostly colourless space. Viktor seemed to like his greys, and his whites, the furnishings industrial and angular.

   As he looked around, Yuuri wondered how Viktor paid for this place if he wasn’t skating anymore.

   Perhaps his sponsorship money had been enough to linger after six years.

   Viktor shuffled past him, limping badly, and dropped down onto the couch, sprawled all the way across it. He lifted his bad leg with a wince, resting it up on a cushion, and then flopped his head back on the arm of the sofa.

   ‘Have you eaten at all today?’ Yuuri asked.

   Viktor shook his head, closing his eyes for a second.

   ‘I’ll cook you something,’ said Yuuri, hoping that there’d be food in the fridge. ‘You need to eat if you’re… if you’re sick.’

   He went to the cupboards, then the fridge, relieved to see that Viktor kept his apartment fairly stocked up. They weren’t all ingredients that he was used to cooking with, but there was enough to make an… _adapted_ pork cutlet bowl.

   ‘Have you ever had katsudon?’ he asked.

   Viktor shook his head again.

   Yuuri smiled to himself. No matter how sick he was, katsudon always made him feel better. He hoped that it would do the same for Viktor.

   He bustled around for a while, wondering how on earth he’d ended up in the alternate reality universe in which he cooked dinner for his idol. He’d always been the caring type, and above all his family had raised him to treat food as the cure to all woes.

   ‘The lady at the pharmacy said that you should… that you should rest your leg for two days at least,’ he said, when the rice had started steaming.

   One of Viktor’s eyes flickered open, as though analysing him in a crooked wink. ‘Did she now?’

   ‘And that you should stock up better on your pills.’

   ‘Mm,’ Viktor sighed, closing his eyes again. ‘I suppose I should.’

   ‘Viktor?’

   ‘Yes?’

   ‘What’s… I…’ Yuuri took a breath. ‘Viktor, you’re not dying, are you?’

   Viktor laughed. He actually laughed, although his jaw tensed at the slight movement in his body. ‘No, no I’m not.’

   Yuuri relaxed a little. ‘Then what’s… what’s wrong? I don’t understand… It’s been six years…’

   Silence.

   Then –

   ‘Can we eat first?’ Viktor asked.

   Yuuri nodded, taking the finished bowl over to him after a minute and setting it down in his lap. He sat on the floor, himself, putting his portion on the low coffee table, and ate quietly, occasionally glancing up to watch Viktor relax. His whole body seemed to settle with the food, even the lines of tension in his face levelling out a little.

   ‘Wow, Yuuri,’ he said, ‘this is amazing.’

   ‘It’s my family speciality.’

   ‘Thank you for making it for me.’

   ‘No problem,’ Yuuri smiled.

   Viktor sighed, looking up at the ceiling for a while, and then he turned his head to look at him. ‘I suppose I have to tell you now,’ he said, ‘if we’re going to keep… seeing each other.’

   _Seeing each other_. Was that what they were doing? Yuuri still didn’t know what Viktor was – a coach? His friend? Some helpful stranger?

   ‘I injured my knee, years ago, messing around with a jump that I shouldn’t have been messing around with. Yakov had warned me not to. He told me it could end my career. And he was right,’ he said, looking back up as though he didn’t want to look him in the eye while he was talking.

   ‘Oh Viktor, I’m sorry,’ Yuuri said softly.

   ‘At first, it was a minor injury. I thought I’d be off the ice for the rest of the season, get ready for Olympics the next year. That’s what the doctors told me. But the injury didn’t… it didn’t get better.’

   ‘I don’t - ’

   ‘After weeks and weeks, I seemed to be feeling okay. I got back on the ice. I started training again, but then it hit me. The injury hadn’t healed, it was worse. Far worse than it had been. It was… unbearable. Finally, when I thought that I might just die from the pain of it, I was diagnosed with CRPS.’

   ‘What’s that?’ Yuuri asked. He didn’t recognise it. Maybe in Japanese, he would have, but the letters didn’t seem to mean anything to him in English.

   ‘A condition called Complex Regional Pain Syndrome,’ said Viktor. ‘It can arise from even the most minor injuries. It causes burning pain in the affected limb. Terrible pain,’ he sighed, squeezing his eyes closed.

   ‘So how do you cure it?’

   Viktor shook his head, sadness etched across his face. ‘You don’t.’

   ‘But… but surely - ’  

   ‘It’s manageable, most of the time,’ said Viktor. ‘Early on, it wasn’t, but with time it has become less aggressive, I think. I can walk around fine. The pain is always there, but it’s bearable. As you saw that first night, I’ve even tried skating again occasionally, over the last couple of years. If I concentrate, I can still rotate a single. I usually pay for it though, later – my bad knee is my landing leg. When I have a flare-up, or an attack, suddenly it’s like I’m eighteen again – when it was at its very worst.’

   Yuuri’s heart ached. In all of the legends about Viktor’s disappearance, he’d never heard anything like _this_. He’d heard fantastical tales, inhuman tales, outrageous tales, but none of them were close to the sorrow of the reality. He wondered, with even more curiosity now, what Viktor had been doing in the time that he’d dropped off the face of the earth. Seeing more doctors? Travelling? Or had he just been locked away here, too tired to face the world? He couldn’t ask. Viktor had already opened up enough for one day. ‘The pills… they help?’ Yuuri asked instead.

   ‘Sometimes,’ said Viktor, ‘sometimes not.’

   ‘So at the minute, these last couple of days, it’s been bad? You’re having… like… a flare-up?’ Yuuri asked, remembering the words he’d used.

   ‘Yes,’ Viktor murmured. ‘I’m sorry that I missed our meetings.’

   ‘That’s okay,’ said Yuuri, hoping that his smile was warm.

   ‘The worst pain lasts only for minutes, but it’s very tiring,’ he said. ‘Afterwards, I feel like I’ve just trained for ten hours.’

   ‘You should tell me, next time,’ said Yuuri, ‘call me, and I can come and cook for you again. You shouldn’t be moving about if it’s that bad. I can help you out.’

   ‘You’re scarily kind, Yuuri,’ said Viktor with a laugh. ‘But you’ll be going home to Japan, soon. And you need to be concentrating on your skating, not some sad old has-been like me. You’re good – very good. If you sort your head out, you could do very well.’

   ‘You’re not a has-been, Viktor, and you’re not _old_. You’re only twenty-three.’ Yuuri swallowed, trying to pluck up the courage to suggest what he wanted to say. ‘Just because you can’t skate anymore, doesn’t mean… I… maybe we could… Maybe we could help each _other_.’

   Viktor narrowed his eyes in interest. ‘What do you mean?’

   ‘Viktor, the advice you’ve been giving me is… it’s like nothing anybody’s ever told me. I need to get better – I’m not getting any younger either and I want to _win_. You could help me, keep… keep te _aching_ me. And I could help you out when you need it, and it would give you something to – to do…’ he trailed off, wondering whether any of his stuttering made sense.

   He didn’t miss the gleam that appeared in Viktor’s eyes. It flashed across the surface, and vanished so quickly that he could have imagined it, but he was certain that he didn’t. ‘Really? I could be like your coach?’

   The light was there.

   It was excitement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who read/commented/kudos’ed this fic so far <3 I love you all!

  The moment that Yuuri called Viktor his ‘coach’ for the first time, everything changed. In good ways, and in bad.

  In the good way, Yuuri found himself learning things about skating that he’d never heard before – not from anyone. Some of the advice that Viktor gave him, he was half tempted to enquire whether was from Yakov Feltsman’s experience or his own. He really wanted to ask, too, if Viktor had anything to do with his former coach now. But he kept his mouth shut, concentrating on skating, because he could see immediately that _this_ was good for Viktor.

   He was starting to look like a changed man, already. He showed up to the rink with a smile on his face, hair pulled back tidily, limp in his leg there but barely noticeable once Yuuri started getting used to it.

   In the _bad_ way, the smile slid from Viktor’s face almost immediately every day. In fact, the more they trained, the more Yuuri was realising that Viktor could be more than a little harsh. He loathed anything less than perfection, something which Yuuri could relate to, but where Yuuri got upset when things went wrong, Viktor got _irritated_. He snapped things in Russian whenever he thought that Yuuri wasn’t listening to him. He cut his music over and over whenever a run through was lagging, making him start all over. He rolled his eyes when Yuuri got tired, or wanted to sit down for five minutes.

   Still, his words, his mannerisms, never felt _unkind_. They were always rooted in fact, fact that was intended to help him.

   Viktor just wanted him to get better.

   Because Viktor already had big ideas.

   ‘You’re not going to go winning Worlds this year, so we’ll use it as a practice run instead. We’ve got to think long-ish game. Grand Prix next year – that’s your target.’

   Yuuri nodded, slumped over the boards after a particularly exhausting session one night. ‘Viktor, can I ask something?’

   ‘Mm?’

   ‘What am I going to do at competitions?’ Yuuri asked, because it was a few days after his split from his old coach and he was feeling anxious; it was something that had been on the cards since long before he met Viktor, but the prospect of the conversation had still kept him nervous for days. It hadn’t gone too badly, but now that Viktor being his main coach was a reality, other concerns had started to creep in. ‘I mean who’s going to go with me?’

   ‘What do you mean?’ Viktor asked absentmindedly, replaying a video of Yuuri’s most recent jump on his phone and pulling a face at his take-off.

   ‘Well I mean… it’s not like you can come with me…’ he whispered, voice so low that it was like his vocal chords wanted to broach this subject even less than his mind.

   Viktor looked up in surprise, lips parting, as though he hadn’t even thought about it. Then, barely missing a beat, he said, ‘I’m your coach, of course I’ll come with you.’

   Yuuri stared at him. ‘W-what?’

   ‘I’m not going to send you on your own, am I?’

   Yuuri continued to stare at him, trying to compute his words. They didn’t make sense. This was _Viktor –_ Viktor who was still making him train in the middle of the night because he couldn’t risk anyone seeing him any other time. Viktor who hadn’t been seen for more than a few seconds in public for _years_. Viktor who was stood in front of him acting like it would be no big deal to all of a sudden throw himself in front of TV cameras, into the lions’ den with all of his previous associates, all in the name of Yuuri’s coaching.

   He couldn’t be serious.

   ‘Viktor, have you thought - ’

   ‘Run the lutz again,’ Viktor interrupted. ‘Watching back your flutzes the other night gave me a migraine.’

   ‘Okay,’ Yuuri swallowed. He wasn’t going to argue with him. Viktor could be very intimidating. And he really _did_ need to sort out his edge.

*

   With Worlds edging ever closer as winter turned to spring, Viktor was still talking about travelling to the competition as though it were nothing more than a casual trip out. He was training Yuuri harder, but still at night.

   One night, very late, towards the end of their session, Viktor was running through his step sequence with him. It was a special treat, whenever Viktor put on skates. Yuuri always found himself standing back and just watching him skate, completely enamoured in the vision, forgetting all about the fact that he was supposed to be learning. He truly was an ethereal being on the ice.

   _Extraordinary._

Viktor was going through a lengthy explanation as to why he always skidded on his counter turns, when he twisted particularly fast in demonstration, and his knee gave out.

   He cursed – _loudly_ – in Russian. Yuuri was growing to recognise those words.

   Yuuri crossed the rink in rapid strokes, heart pounding, but he wasn’t quick enough to catch Viktor before he dropped to the ice, knees hitting the surface with a sickening thud, hands shooting straight to protect the right.

   ‘I’m fine,’ he switched back to English as Yuuri stopped beside him, crouching down. ‘I’m _fine_.’

   He didn’t look fine. He didn’t sound fine.

   At first, after he had revealed everything back at his apartment, Viktor had retreated to total detachment. He refused help. He protested loudly whenever Yuuri tried to come to his aid, often snapping that he wasn’t a _child_. He kept his face neutral and his body familiarly stiff but steady, no matter how much pain he was in.

   Over the weeks though, he had started to open up again, as he had done on that one night.

   Now, Yuuri could just about convince him to let him help. It just took a little… coaxing.

   ‘No you’re not,’ he murmured, and he rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go and get the boot off.’

   He had learned, from the moments where Viktor let him in, that this was the most important first step. When the leg was hurting, it became horribly sensitive to touch – all the way down almost to his foot. As soon as there was a twinge of pain, Yuuri would take him to one side, take off his skates or his shoes and his socks and roll up his pant leg to try to take away any pressure.

   Viktor grumbled slightly, but he did allow Yuuri to help him to his feet, supporting his weight from the right side so that Viktor only had to push off gently with his left skate as they nudged back to the boards.

   ‘I think we’ve trained enough for today,’ said Yuuri. He was a shy, in Viktor’s presence, an awful lot of the time, but when it came to this sort of thing, he had an authority in his voice. He’d been raised in a family where you cared for others in need, even if they might push you away at first. ‘Let’s go back to yours.’

   ‘I can get there myself,’ said Viktor.

   Yuuri ignored him, and Viktor, to his credit, didn’t protest any further.

   Yuuri was growing accustomed to Viktor’s apartment. It was, in the strangest sort of way, a home away from home. He’d been in his hotel room so long that it seemed to have become his first home, and then this place was his second. Japan felt like a distant memory. For a moment, he imagined Viktor in Hasetsu.

   _Viktor_ in _Hasetsu_.

   He paused, looking down at the pan in which he was making a late-night dinner. The vegetables looked back at him innocently as he processed his idea.

   ‘Viktor?’ he turned.

   ‘Yuuri - ’ Viktor started, at the exact same moment. Then, he inclined his head from the couch. ‘You first.’

   ‘Viktor, I think you should come to Japan with me.’

   ‘Right. Yuuri, I think you should move in with me.’

   A silence, then Viktor’s eyes widened in surprise.

   ‘Wait, what?’

   ‘No, _you_ what?’ retorted Yuuri, completely stunned.

   ‘Well I was just thinking it’s ridiculous that you’re wasting all your money on a hotel when you could live right here. And also your cooking is excellent and I can’t say that I dislike having you around,’ Viktor’s face was dismissive, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Yuuri could always recognise now to mean that he was interested. ‘But what on earth do you mean about Japan?’

   Yuuri took a deep breath. ‘I was just… My family run a hot springs resort. I was thinking about home and suddenly I thought about you and I training there and… and I thought you could use the hot springs.’

   Viktor narrowed his eyes. ‘Meaning?’

   ‘Viktor I know you’ve probably tried everything for - for your leg, but hot springs have all sorts of health benefits. I’m not saying it’s a cure or anything, but maybe it would help with some of your pain. There’s nothing like a spring to really help your body relax – your skin absorbs minerals and your circulation improves and we’ve had plenty of people to stay with all sorts of injuries. I just thought maybe it could be good for you.’

   There was an awkward quiet as Viktor stared at him. Then –

   ‘Can your family cook as well as you do?’

   ‘Better,’ Yuuri answered automatically.

   ‘Then I suppose I could be convinced. Besides, Worlds are being hosted in Saitama this year. We’ll have to travel eventually. Maybe we could… stay on, after. For a while.’

   Yuuri’s heart leapt in excitement.

   ‘In the meantime, we’ll continue to train for Worlds here. And you can stay with me.’

   Another leap of thrill.

   The thought of staying with Viktor was… appealing.

   The more time that he’d spent with him, the more time he _wanted_ to spend with him. For all his waspishness, his abruptness, his occasional tendency towards accidental insult, Viktor was a lot of fun to be around. He had a dry wit about him, an observational humour that Yuuri hadn’t really heard from anyone else before. When he wasn’t criticising, his praise washed over him like a fountain of youth, such did it energise him. And Viktor didn’t hold back from praise. He was a perfectionist, yes, but when Yuuri _did_ get something perfect? He would wax lyrical for hours – the entire rest of the night if they stayed there long enough – about his improvement, his quality.

   At the end of every session, even if it had been somewhat flat, Viktor would be nothing but kind to him.

   And praise, compliments, kindness from Viktor Nikiforov?

   That was like a drug to him.

   He was his _idol_. He was an extraordinary skater. And… and there was something about him that made Yuuri’s heart beat faster. Something that had less to do with skating and more to do with the fact that he had an extraordinarily _addictive_ gaze, a weight in his sight that meant Yuuri could feel when he was watching him. He didn’t look down on him like skaters on the tour, he looked at him with respect, esteem, and a certain amount of _pride_ when he was doing well.

   He was also, Yuuri had to admit to himself, so very handsome that sometimes, when Viktor looked into his eyes for too long, he had to look down before he flushed.

   ‘Here,’ Yuuri smiled, holding out a bowl for Viktor.

   He sat down next to him on the couch, then jumped when Viktor immediately sprawled sideways, throwing his legs across Yuuri’s lap. ‘It helps to stretch out,’ he yawned.

   Yuuri squeaked something in response, not daring to move once Viktor had got himself comfortable, eating loudly.

   ‘I’ve been thinking about you and me at the competition,’ said Viktor, between mouthfuls. ‘I don’t want my return to overshadow our work. So, I think that we should make a press release, announce our collaboration, _soon_. As soon as possible, in fact. That ought to give it time to die down a little before you compete.’

   Finally, they were having this conversation. Yuuri couldn’t help but think that there was a less-than-zero chance that the chaos around Viktor’s return to the circuit would _ever_ die down. He wondered whether Viktor even _knew_ the effect that his departure had had on their world. Maybe he’d hidden himself away so deeply that he’d been protected from it.

   It had been chaos.

   Yuuri had only been thirteen when he’d disappeared, but he remembered every moment of the subsequent weeks. He remembered the conspiracy theories; he remembered the tears of fans; he remembered the media circus. He even remembered the _hole_ left in the skating world that no one dared to fill – the way that for the next couple of years, there was no consistent winner in competition because no one was ready to succeed to his throne.

   ‘Viktor?’ he murmured, after a moment.

   ‘Mm?’

   ‘Viktor, are you ready for that?’ he whispered.

   Viktor shifted, crooking his bad leg slightly on his lap, and looked down at his food. ‘Of course.’

   ‘I mean _really_? You’ve been gone for six years. People are going to be all over you. Everyone’s going to be asking you questions – questions about _this_ ,’ Yuuri rested his hand down, very gently, on Viktor’s shin, low enough that it didn’t hurt him. ‘Are you ready for all of that?’

   ‘No.’ His voice was abrupt, unrestrained this time. ‘No, I’m not. But I’ll never be ready. Like you said, it’s been _six years_. What am I going to do? Hide away in this apartment for another six? Ten? Twenty? I’ll rot away here, Yuuri. I have to do this. _We_ have to do this. You need me as your coach, and I’m going to stand there at your side. We’ll just… we’ll deal with it. Will it be horrible? Yes. Probably. Maybe for a while. But gradually, things will calm down, and – and they’ll be better. Better than they have been for a long time. I’ve got a picture in my head, a picture of what our lives are going to look like. This is step one.’

   _Our lives_?

   How quickly their paths seemed to have become linked together so intrinsically. Already, Yuuri couldn’t imagine his career without Viktor there coaching him. Already, he couldn’t imagine his _life_ without Viktor there with him. He knew that it was ridiculous, to have grown so attached so fast, but St Petersburg was like a bubble. It had been so many weeks since he’d seen anyone else, spent any time with anyone else – his whole existence had become _skating and Viktor._

And Viktor had a picture? Of their lives?

   Yuuri wanted to ask him about it.

   He wanted to know what he meant.

   But there was something strangely thrilling about the prospect of a surprise.


End file.
